In case you're wondering, keeping a blog was one of my quasi-New Year's Resolutions. I never keep them, so don't keep your hopes up. Shall we take a brief retrospect to take a look back at failed resolutions? Let's.
1. Get in better shape. Unless spherical and fatter are new shapes, this did not happen.
2. Learn to play a musical instrument. Not a total fail. I've definitely racked up some impressive hours on Rock Band.
3. Getting with your mom. HEY OH! Dreams do come true.
Well, that's really it. I don't really make resolutions because I know I'll give up on them anyways. Why disappoint myself? I'm happy enough without having to take a WHOLE year to improve one thing to make myself an eensy bit happier.
So onto why start my blog up again. Well, it's my last semester at NYU and quite possibly my last semester of school and last semester living in this glorious city. Not to get hormonal-PMS-girl on your asses, but it's REALLY sad that this chapter of my life is almost over. I think of coming to NYU as one of the best and riskiest decisions I've made in my young life. I decided to come here based on 1. An acceptance letter (which I never actually really got, more like a phone call in my AP Econ class) 2. A desire for a new adventure
In a few months, I'll be graduating and getting my butt kicked by the real world, and I thought I'd do myself a service (and honestly, I know y'all like reading this, so I'm expecting some pleases and thank yous and bjs) and actually try to remember what happened in my last days at NYU.
But...nothing really exciting has happened since I've been back (it's only been four days...I'm not THAT exciting. I'm not Justin Bieber. No one cares about my struggle to get to the top...people told me no and I still made it. But do I get a record deal? Do millions of boys adopt my androgynous boy-girl haircut? No! NO!), so I'll regale my five or so readers with a story that my friends back home seemed to like. It involves a red wool sweater and a gay club. Did I peak your interest? Yeah, I didn't think so =/
SO. I thought I had the perfect plan. I had been invited to go to a bar and then (gay) clubbing afterwards. Now, for anyone who knows me, I'm not much of a party animal. EXCEPT, I was a party MONSTER the day before this story happens, staying at my friend Karina's house until 4AM dancing to 90s music. Now, I had my share of homoerotic dancing at Karina's, but that don't mean I'm up for two days of it in a row.
Being the clever boy that I am, I wore this:
Yes, I know, not good club attire (and probably not great bar attire either), but that was the point! I had asked one my sisters for this for my birthday, because as she likes to say, my fashion sense is a cross between old man and preppy. Fairly accurate.
I thought that if I wore this wool sweater, I'd be fool proof. I can't club in a wool sweater AND even if I did end up going (spoiler alert: I end up going) no one would find me attractive and I wouldn't get molested and stuff. I also chose not to wear an undershirt so that I'd have an excuse to have to keep my sweater on and have yet another reason to not go to the club. Perfect, no? It gets better! I ended up driving three friends, two of which were not totally game to go, and since I was their ride, they could be my scapegoats. At this point, I think I've built an impermeable fortress of excuses to protect me from the club.
Cut to Unicorn, a Seattle bar apparently known for its hot dogs or something. All I wanted to know was what was in their drink Unicorn Jizz. But anyways, I'm having a gay 'ol time (well, not yet) and long story short, I end up going to the club, confusingly named "R Place." I guess it's a pun on like, "Hey, after the bar, you wanna go to our place?" "Sure!" when really it should be "Hey, I wanna get porked later tonight after the bar; wanna go to R Place?" "Sure!" It's confusing, really.
Ten minutes later, I'm waiting in line to get into R Place. Everyone's wearing nice clubbing outfits and there I am, Cosby Sweater-ed out. Paying the seven dollar cover, we all head in and some of my friends find the coat check. No need to ask me though, because my 100% wool sweater has kept me warm in the Seattle winter weather. My wool sweater is my plan going awry and jacket in one!
Fade to the top floor of this three-story establishment where guys and gals of all different varieties are gyrating, sweating, drinking, oogling, and filling the relatively small dancefloor like a can of sardines. I spotted a pretty open spot on the dance floor, but of course we don't choose to dance there, rather the most crowded area between two go-go dancers donning only white briefs. Now, when I say it's crowded, I mean it. I wouldn't say I really "danced," but more just stood there and let the crowd sway me back and forth. I couldn't really talk to my friends either, more just make awkward faces to communicate. I think a wink and furrowed eyebrows meant the go-go dancers junk was getting too close to my face and was gonna boink my eye out.
The night basically went on in this fashion:
Awkwardly not-dancing,
Sweating profusely,
Getting pushed so guys could crowd around my other more desirable friends,
Being grossed out by how sweaty the go-go dancers were
Not much else happened during my stay at R Place until the last ten or so minutes. I had made a previous promise to a friend that we'd leave R Place at 12:30AM so that she could, very ironically, get a hot dog at one of the late night vendors that surface for drunken bar and club goers (we ultimately failed at this, meaning that the day after, after a hot-dog nostalgia filled conversation, my friends went to Denny's where I ,to my chagrin, also went while I had also appropriately wore Spongebob pj bottoms...yet no one got a hotdog.).
12:30AM on the dot, I tell my friend that it's time to leave. She, however, has her coat in the coatcheck, which, if you forgot, I didn't need because of my wool SWEATer. I told her I'd meet her and my friends downstairs after I said bye to another friend still dancing it up. This, however, left me pretty alone.
Now this is where the meat (pun intended) of the story happens. I'm standing, stationary, moving my head like a periscope scanning the sweaty masses to find my friend. Then I feel it. Two hands on my hips. Now, I had grown accustomed to this during my short time at R Place, because that was the typical way people moved you around the dance floor in pursuit of their next dance prey. So I let it happen. When I didn't feel the hands transfer my body to a different spot on the dance floor, I knew something was wrong. Then, I felt two more hands, this pair grabbing onto my chesticles. Four hands? Was I getting gropped by half a spider? A four-armed monkey? I was a little in disbelief. I don't need to remind you what I was wearing, do I? So I froze; I was freaked! The quatro-handed beast (which I eventually found out was a white and latino couple wanting me to get freaky with them) went crazy over my body and remember when I said the dance floor was crowded? So much so, I couldn't find a way off the floor. The hands were rubbing so crazy--it was like they wanted to catch me on fire or create the biggest static shock ever. Maybe they just thought I was a stuffed animal?
But relief! I find one of my friends. I try to tell her that I really need to leave. She comes up to me and starts dancing with me, inadvertently pushing me into the couple feeling me up. The couple took it as a "I want it! Give it to me!" gesture and proceed to grope harder and faster, and then I felt two things. Two fingers trying to drive themselves in between my butt cheeks. Let's let that sink in (not the fingers in my butt...just the imagery). It was like they were trying to conduct a dance floor prostate exam. I stiffened (not that part, you pervs) and told my friend again "We NEED to go now!" and she bravely grabbed my arm and we pushed our way through the crowd to salvation.
That's basically it. Epic story? Eh, but pretty entertaining. I hope you find my body's violation somewhat fun to read.
Man, I totally suck. I wanted to start this blog again so I could remember my last semester at NYU, but instead write about getting almost-fingered at a gay club in Seattle.
All the best my friends!
*Middle Class Rut- New Low
